No Gods, No Masters
by Shadowfang3000
Summary: "Dying was the easy part." - Bred from the peasantry comes England's greatest agent of war; a master assassin who terrorised the kings of Europe for decades and more. Striken by plague and upon his deathbed, he comes to terms with the adventures he has experienced - and the cost of his brashness throughout his eventful years.


**(A/N): **Good golly Miss Molly, how much I love the Total War series!

Quite recently, my disc drive actually ate my Medieval 2 disc… Which is quite the shame, because I've always been a fan of RTW and I was really getting into M2TW after years of having it sitting on my shelf! 'tis a darn shame, but oh well…

Anywho! During my original M2TW campaign, I had the luxury of training an assassin called Josias something-or-other. I've never had success with agents in the Total War game in the long run, but Josias seemed to be the singular exception – I trained him to 9/10 stars, and he quickly became my favourite instrument of war on the campaign map!

Alas, soon enough his spree of killings and sabotage came to an end, and while he did have successors few would beat the pleasant surprise and sheer bodacity of the original Assassin of England… And this fic aims to convey the things he did, albeit with a bit of fiction sprinkled _atop_ the fiction!

Let's see how this works out… This is practically a short fiction story set in the medieval period, not a fanfic O_o

**WARNING: **Spelling errors, peculiar portrayals of an assassin, strange views on what you'd be like in your death bed, severe historical inaccuracy, and me trying to be edgier than a knife!

**No Gods, No Masters**

Over the murmuring of drunks and the clinking of drinks on a hot Spanish evening, few could hear the withering groans of a man in the throes of impending death. To be perfectly honest, heartache – _literal _heartache – was such a common ailment in Valencia nowadays that neither words nor thoughts were bandied with the sick and dying.

_Iberians weren't cruel; people were in general._

And so locked away in a travelling inn; bound by thin blankets and smelly cushions that weighed heavily upon his tired old bones, an aging and sickly man tickling his sixties with a full head of grey hacked and sputtered as the pus and buboes spread throughout his person.

He was content, really. He'd done everything – truly _everything _– that his warped mind could consider as doable in a single life time. Once your purpose in life is finally met, does one achieve enlightenment?

_Or merely content?_

This man wasn't a local. If he _was_ a local, he doubted he'd be granted such a hushed refuge wedged deep in the arse crack of a coaching inn – he would instead be showered in typical Spanish trivialities. However, he knew so little of local traditions that they could have ranged anywhere from ludicrous _dance_ parties to interpretive _poetry_ readings.

_That wasn't his thing._

_He was an Englishman, see. _

Well, the key word "_was" _took dominance there. If he was _still_ an Englishman, he wouldn't have been stuck in the middle of such a far out, exotic and _erotic_ Riviera in a perpetual holiday state. Sometimes he missed the chilling and pessimistic downpours of London – filling the gutters of the urban city with waste and vermin and snoozing vagrants down on their luck. How he _longed_ for that smell: the filthy, nostalgic stench of _home_.

Josias Hobbes… Or was it Josias _Watkins_?

The old man had been so focused on thoughts of home that he'd simply misplaced his birth-given name. That _shouldn't_ have been normal – although it did explain why Kings and Queens had so many plaques and statues with their names and faces plastered on. How else could such busy people remember their name _and_ age as they scoured nose-deep through their papers?

Royalty were _busy_ people. Josias may have been the first in pubs and taverns to raise the twin fingers at the regency, but he'd had _plenty _of experience first-hand with the lords and barons and nobles and thanes of the realm. Between a life of farming or a life of admin, it was _shocking_ how hard the choice truly was.

_What was it to be? A life of nothing or a life of perpetual business?_

_Along with the overriding knowledge that everyone you knew – friend or foe – hated you for your title alone._

Oh yes, Josias had an _extensive_ experience with the feuds of the court. Funny actually, considering that he had less noble blood in him than your average well-worn battlefield as the crows came down with bibs and forks for the day's din dins. It was unsettling knowing that even fellow countrymen often plotted each other's demise.

Even the King of England himself needed to rid himself of his yeomen from time to time – a "_cleansing of the guard_", as it were. Yet despite a monthly flush of every council, every institution, and every House, those nitty gritty bats and scrap-hoarding rats _always _found a way back through the drains.

_Hobbes… No, it had to be Hobbes._

_Watkins sounded like a writer's name, and he was no writer._

He'd been a _special _servant for the King of the Kingdom – his own little arrow that he could fire from his longbow at enemies from afar. Diplomacy and politics are such volatile and tactile things; so much so that Kings and Queens tend to have to distance their names from the deals – even though _everyone _knew it was they who were pulling strings in everything but title.

_Watkins… It must've been Watkins._

_That was the name of an artist – and he was an artist, or sorts._

It'd taken a _single_ stroke of luck for him to perfect his craft – _one_ successful task that had freed his liege's mind and emptied his pockets of gold and dimes to shower Josias with. It was from then on that Watkins – or _Hobbes_ – took on the role as his lord's closest and most personal servant, always sent in when the tables became covered in dirtied plates and fresh big cheeses.

Hobbes – or _Watkins_ – was _proud_ to accept the job of course. So many applicants had failed to meet the specification, and it was apparent that England _needed _someone with his particular talents and skills to carry out her will. Watkins - Or was it _Scarborough_? – took on his role with open palms.

_It wasn't his fault that he'd forgotten._

_He hadn't chosen the name "Josias the Killer"._

_He was an Assassin, after all. _

… _He had mentioned that in his ramblings, hadn't he? _

He was Josias the Killer, the hand of his king and the untimely demise of every single threat or nuisance that ever came within his liege's eyes. It just so happened that Kings had enemies and "old friends" aplenty – and so the two of them were often busy men, in their _own_ ways.

It was the start of a beautiful relationship, as Josias the Killer swept a spree of carnage across the entirety of France and the Empire. Throats were slit, charges were set, coups were held, and money – _lots _of money – managed to be "displaced" by clumsy hands.

_The coffers of England were always thirsty, after all._

Some would say that it was frightening how he approached his killings with such a calm and reserved poise – but it was just _business_; nothing _personal. _He was merely a vessel of the will of his noble crown, and would obediently carry out his wishes and fill his needs so that his reign of England could remain smooth.

It was an obedience bred by understanding – a killer pulled from the peasantry and shown a world he assumed would be nothing but fancy cakes, tasty turkey, constant sex and frivolous parties. There was plenty of _that_, but it didn't change the realisation that his King was _working._

_And so, he returned the favour._

_Efficiency_ was his watchword – quick and _relatively_ clean; as quiet as the soft prayers of monks within their towering and spiralling monasteries. He _rarely_ wished for pain upon the lords and generals he mutilated; if anything he was granting them _release_ from the difficulties of their lives – release from the responsibilities of authority; of _giving_ orders rather than _following_ them.

_Dying was the easy part._

Disappointing were his _messier _operations. Out of fear or perhaps even _uncertainty_, a few of his targets understood that they would have assassins and murderers breathing down their necks. It must've been _strange_ living life with the grotesque knowledge that the next person you shook hands with could very well pull you into a bear hug and stick you with one fell swoop.

_He'd done that to a few of the ladies._

_He wondered how many knew what was coming._

_How many simply let it happen._

Josias didn't remember the faces. Or rather, upon the creaky and crooked padding that the innkeeper had insulted him by calling a "mattress", within the throes and visions of a plague-induced demise, he couldn't _quite_ recall if he had remembered _then_.

Because regardless, he probably couldn't recognise his _own _face in his current state.

A veiny set of knuckles laboured to swipe across his crinkled brow, his hands bumpy with buboes and lumps. Bartholomew – or was it _Josias_? – exhaled with distaste, slipping his sweaty fist under the sheets once more.

The funniest thing was, his most infamous slaying occurred at such a profound and _absurd_ distance that he never even had a chance to see the whites of his victim's _eyes_. Lord knew what they'd done to insult the King of England, but the Papacy had to _pay_ the price for whatever they had done to displease him – through a _blood_ sacrifice.

On a busy Sunday morning during a long, busy, cheering mass, as far out as the country of Italy in the alien and ancient city of Rome, Josias the Killer had scaled the ornate walls of the basilica itself with but a crossbow upon his back, a chip on his shoulder, and a single bronze-tipped bolt locked and loaded.

He hadn't wanted it to be within the public's eyes, but the Pope was a man of common sense – so heavily guarded that nothing short of a full scale _invasion_ of Christendom's combined armies could reach his _porch_. And so slipping through stain-glass forms of St. Mary and Joseph, he took aim with patience, eying his quarry like a hawk on the hunt.

_He only needed one shot._

_And he skewered the leech through his blackened heart._

_Blue blood or red, it all bled the same._

Oh how _pleased_ his liege was with the news – a despot disposed by his _favourite_ servant, leaving the whole of Europe none the wiser to England's involvement. He was granted neither gifts nor gold nor women nor wives – just _praise_. A deep, unwavering, unending respect from the king he had worked so hard to serve and nourish.

And so their business continued. It wasn't over 'til the fat lady sang, and in the assassin's experience there were _few_ fat ladies within the court of England – let alone fat ladies who were able to _sing. _He intended to keep serving his lord until he fell in love – or fell _dead_.

_Thankfully, there was no irony in those words._

Falling in love wasn't what disgraced him. Lords above, if falling in _love _was what resulted in him being stuck in the arid wastes of South-East Spain he would've _gladly _driven a shiv through the dame's throat to be done with it all. His only love was for his liege – for_ king_ and _country_.

It was a trivial matter, truly. After _months_ of negotiating behind paper-thin walls of honour and virtue, an alliance had been forged between England and Scotland - an historical breakthrough, considering the _constant_ strife that had separated the two reigning nations of the British Isles for a millennia and more. A deal sealed by nothing more than an exchanging of rings - a Scottish Queen to his English liege.

_It was the perfect scenario._

_The accent was just a plus, so he'd heard._

Of course, not _everyone_ was fond of this agreement; it wasn't "_patriotic_" or "_English_" or "_traditional_" or _whatever_ the latest excuse was. If for _once_ the nobles of the land came to an agreement over decisions made by the Crown, then the prestige of England - if not the whole of _Christendom_ - would have reached as far as Arabia and the Red Sea.

One person in particular that was rather vocal about his distaste was the new Queen's brother - in other words, the brother-in-law of the assassin's liege. Of course as part of this little "union" both the Scots and the Angles had a fair share in their partnered courts, and like the snotty-nosed _git_ he was the brother-in-law did his damndest to prevent and block every single law and order made by the English Crown.

_"Oh, what I'd do to be rid of him."_

Those were the _exact_ words Josias overheard one fateful evening; the silent pleas of his vulnerable and lonesome king upon his mournful throne, once again in need of his unique services. Like all problems there was a universal solution - a waning drop of venom, a glass of wine fresh from the vinery. Some said it was Witchcraft; others an act of a vengeful God; rest assured, none would _truly_ know what it was that claimed the Scottish prince's life in the dead of night.

Save for the King of course. How could the assassin's commander - his lordship _and_ master - _not _know of his timeless methods? He'd applaud and praise his lord's deductive talent with a chorus of bravos, if only he'd smile and chuckle in return. Suspicion of course brewed; it was as clear as the sky in the distant Holy Land that his majesty _despised _the tale-teller, and sooner or later the spies of Scotland would double their already _obvious_ presence in England in search for answers - and _retribution_.

For once the King was displeased - or rather _outraged _- by the brash and foolish action of his closest servant. Like a lapdog lapping at one's boots Josias had of course pleaded; that what he'd done was for the good of his liege, and that he wished to cleanse his mind of any doubt or threat to his rightful claim to the throne.

There was only one solution. In order for the trail to grow cold at his feet, the King of England made the decision - driven by a frustrated venom as potent as that used against his brother - to cast aside his greatest instrument of war, for the good of them _both._

He didn't speak up of course - one shoulder _never _cross a King, be they his arch-nemesis or his closest companion. With his head bowed and his shoulders slumped, the assassin accepted the final orders of his master: to relinquish his post, and to leave England; _never_ to return.

_So in retrospect, it was true._

_He lost it all out of love, from a certain point of view._

Banishment always leaves a feeling of betrayal in one's bones, even in understanding of the logic and reason behind it. There was no fleet to send London's finest to stranger shores - merely a _layman's_ boat, reeking of fish, shrouded by the commons and Cornish folk's tunes.

A mast away 'ere break of day, Josias the Killer - his title no more - was granted time to think; to consider the choices that had made him - a royal assassin - into _nothing_. Such a brash solution to a complex case was _token _of his class. Had he learnt _anything _from his time in the court?

_There was a feather-like touch involved._

With all his audacity - all his arrogance and _imagined _self-importance - he thought he could cure _all_ of his master's ills with but a single drop of drink. To think that his poison had spread so _far_ and wide, that he had potentially _plagued_ the future of his liege's kingdom.

By the time friendly ports and merry English Summers were behind him, the assassin was hurtling towards his fifties - a life of servitude at last meeting its monotonous end. Having hailed from a class that rarely saw past the age of thirty, it was an _impressive _feat; his punishment having been extended in the alien lands of Iberia. If there was a God, he certainly had a _nasty _sense of humour about him.

Honestly, what _was_ he to do; a talented, cold killer without a conscience cast aside into distant lands with neither god, nor master to direct him?

_He could only lean, with sorrow, in thought over his foul deeds._

For months he wandered the plains of Spain, his lips forever zipped and his tongue clenched betwixt his teeth as he slipped through the many markets and taverns of such foreign ground. Probably the most striking factor that breached his mind was that despite the distance and gaps in location, skin, language and culture, there were so many _similarities _- both good and bad - between the peasantry of home and abroad.

More often than not his thoughts came to his king; their separation now _terminal _across the hills and waters of Christendom. With regret came worry - as a brother would care for his younger - over the state of affairs that he'd left behind. The assassin's ears were woven in cloth; he no longer had a right to know of the court.

_But there was one thing all heard._

_For cloth can always be burnt._

It may've been months, or it could've been _years_, but soon enough news came hot off the press across the many Spanish Bardic Circles and stalls - tales of skirmishes upon the twin coasts of France, from Calais to Bordeaux. The natural order had at last resumed after _decades_ of uneasy peace: Christendom was alight once more with infighting, specifically between the Kingdoms of England and France.

Josias acted without pause, the same eagerness that had landed him so far away in the _first_ place driving him as he departed on a quest once again. While the crown may have discarded him for his defacing of its glory, that didn't mean he'd abandoned his _beliefs_ - he knew _exactly _where his loyalty lie; his purpose and destination forged _clear _with such substantial news.

It should've been _harder _to resume the hunt at such an old and restrictive age, yet with war ravaging the north of Europe _few _worried about the _south._ Neither farmer nor prince thought once to lock his windows within the peaceful Rivieras of Valencia.

_Traversing the vines was uncomfortable enough._

_'though the familiar sound of slit throats eased the pain._

_The Sandman collected his bounty._

Panic and conspiracy quickly bred at the news; a pretty little Spanish prince of great prospects, his life nicked from his withering grasp to leave nothing more than a frozen husk - one neat line of deep crimson stretching across the circumference of his hairless throat. The more "sensible" and "mature" nobles of the Iberian nobility were quick to speak up: "Those boys and their feuds" they argued, "always escalating until somebody gets hurt".

The aging assassin would've felt insulted if it weren't so _convenient_: had they _honestly_ mistook his craftsmanship and artwork as the act of some foreign fruitcake fresh off the maid's teat? Of course thoughts began to change as the war continued; both England's, and his own.

As sunny Summer skies shifted into a shroud of falling Autumn leaves, more news fell flat onto the slab of Spain's dinner plates: A princess - her doors guarded by loyal men - poisoned by the subtle twin hooks of a toxic serpent. Once again the nobles sought an excuse, _desperate_ for a reason as to why someone would be targeting its youth.

_Of course they never tracked the snake back to him._

_The sort of things you can find in a common market crawl._

Falling stones, drugged darts, tragic "_trips_" upon darkened staircases, one by one the children of Spain met their ends at the Englishman's wrinkled, well-worn hands. And as war continued to rage between their neighbours and the lone isles beyond, the nobility of Spain began to question and quarrel.

A meeting of those blue bloods that remained discussed the acts that had led to their worries - murders aplenty; organised; neither age nor gender sparing the lost of their killers wrath, as he slaughtered them through a myriad of ways.

Some feared that it was a calculated attack upon the royals of Spain, aiming to _destroy_ the fruitful and leave rot in its place. Others feared a vengeful spirit who killed merely out of a sick _pleasure_; a thirst for blood fresh from the pure.

_Oh it was pleasure, but it was not sick._

_It was a pleasure in progress, prosperity and precedence._

_To make them fear that every last one of them would perish by his hand._

It reached a decade sooner or later. Ten _gruelling_ years of death and misery, as one by one princes and princesses met their gruesome ends - no matter how tightly guarded or trained in self defence they be. In some ways it was a seasonal _event_: One life for every change in weather; a sacrifice to appease the deadly god of fate.

In time enough he made a lasting impact, as the circle of royals - halved in number - met once more over the events of the past years. The war of their neighbours raged on, and a frightful realisation was beginning to reach their mind's eye: Perhaps the _French_, with their borders threatened and English forts upon their coasts, wished to _expand_? Maybe _they _sought profit in the assassination of Spain's children?

_After all, who would expect a nation at war to target neutrals?_

Out of desperation the king and nobles clutched onto this answer, like parched men squabbling over the contents of a dripping waterskin. Its forces rallied with false retribution clouding their judgement, the armies of Castille and Leon marching eastwards across France's borders - and within days, _war_ was declared.

Josias was _pleased_, to say the least. The mere actions of a _single_ man slicing and dicing through the young of Iberia like a flank of harvesters treading through their crop had an impact larger than _anyone _could have predicted. A ten year plan to open a _second _front for the people who had abandoned him - to relieve the pressure on his king of the challenge of France, and grant him - albeit _indirectly_ - the peace of mind that he had failed to grant that fateful decade before.

And it was all so _easy_.

His time in Spain was practically a _holiday._

Maybe dealing with all those corpses was what had thrown him into such an itchy bed, filled with tumours and sickness aplenty. He could've arranged a time and date with one of Spain's many trained "doctors", yet he'd rather pass - it would've taken far too much effort to translate the gobbledy gook that they spouted like water from a sheer cliff, let alone _understand _it.

So instead he reserved himself to his fate, his fists clenched together upon his rising chest within Valencia's freezing night. As the dancing candlelight that cast shadows across his room flickered to nothing, Josias embraced the awaiting chill of death with a still heart.

_Watkins, Hobbes, Raul-don-Estaban. It didn't matter._

_He'd given his family away for a new name; his liege's._

_It seemed one's life really did flash as death beckoned._

_How dull._

X

The wet clink of a busy quill was an irritating sound, but it was one a King was made to adjust to. As scrolls and papers and vocal "aides" flocked to his back and sides, his majesty signed paper after paper following _extensive_ reads and revisions.

It was common for his nobles to try and sneak the most _selfish_ of laws under his nose; they all mistook him for an idiot, 'though he often proved them wrong. A stiff set of fingers combed through his beard in thought as he marked another scroll: "_His Majesty's consent over the distribution of cabbage stock throughout the county of Somerset_".

He hacked and he sputtered with barely hidden contempt, for every sheet he signed resulted in the addition of three _more_ in the many stacks that surrounded his throne. The King would've preferred to have slept some hours ago, yet the duty of royalty was often a _priority_. Scratching his nostrils with the feather of his instrument, he dampened his quill's point with another strand of ebony.

A young man in ornate dress with a tie tighter than his pursed lips bowed his foppish head, adding _another_ batch of papers upon _another _pile of text. The frustration brewed as the youth turned on his foot, awkwardly shuffling away with the gait of a man trying to run without appearing so.

At the good advice of those few he could trust, the King turned in for that night - the papers he left continuing to grow as he slumped under his heavy pelts and covers.

Eager to please the lord - in order to advance through the _ranks_, mind - the men of the court sifted through his papers with unbeaten speed. Within an hour or two they had sorted a duo even piles; one of notes that _mattered, _and the other of those that were mere announcements and nothing more. Exchanging nods the useless letters were hauled off with back-breaking strain, the winds lapping at the top of the tower of data.

Twirling elegantly, one such letter waltzed through the gusts and flew to the wastes of England's capital - to be trampled by carriages and buried in mud amongst the dead and dying of London's plagued filled streets.

"_We regret to inform you."_ the letter began, "_of the death of Josias the Killer_."

"_May this be a monument to his memory."_

Forever forgotten, so far away, beneath the growing mounds of dirt.

X

_(A/N): If I was trying to be edgy, that was about as sharp as a cuddly alpaca :O_

_This is very much an experimental fic, and it seems like most experiments it was a prime example of good ideas not particularly translating well into text form. Hit and miss, but hopefully someone out there could enjoy this poorly paced mess - this MONUMENT to Josias the Killer!_

_Toodle-pip for now! One more oneshot for this year, and I'm hoping it works out well!_


End file.
